


Penny and Dime

by gremlinny



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, fratt if you Squint, i just wanted an excuse for them to be in the same room tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinny/pseuds/gremlinny
Summary: "You take down druglords and do parkour, Red, but you're tellin me you can't cook?""Jeez, why don't you find me a measuring cup that's ADA compliant?"_____ORFrank is helpful and Matt is kinda drunk





	Penny and Dime

Matt’s not sure how or when Frank ended up in his apartment, and he definitely doesn't know what compelled the both of them to get extremely drunk on the beer in Matt's fridge, but it happened.

The duo is now acutely aware of the fact that Frank definitely has a higher tolerance than Matt.  
“This tastes like piss,” Frank says, turning the empty bottle over in his hands. Matt scoffs from his spot on the couch, and his voice is muffled by the leather his face is pressed into.

“And yet,” the lawyer slurs, “you’ve had six bottles.”

“Only because this is the only shit that's in your fridge. You seriously gotta get more food, Red, because your selection is a damn travesty. I could cry, lookin’ in your shelves.”

“Mmmhm, yeah, let the blind man cook. Great idea, Frank, there's no way that could go wrong.”  
Matt hears Frank pick something up off the coffee table, and something small is being flicked toward him. He raises his arm and catches the object effortlessly, then lets his hand go limp and listens as a tiny metallic clink sounds off as it hits the floor. A bottlecap.  
“Don't throw shit at me,” he whines.

The soldier huffs and tosses another bottlecap, which Matt lets bounce off the side of his head.  
“You can fight druglords and do parkour and catch projectiles, but you’re sayin’ you can't cook?”

“Well, damn, then find me a measuring cup that’s ADA compliant.”

“I'm rolling my eyes.”  
Frank stands up and walks over to the cupboards, rummaging around, and Matt knows he's looking for something to prove him wrong. After a few minutes of searching, Frank growls a few curses under his breath.  
“You don't have jackshit in here. You got pots and pans and all the other utensils you could need, but you don't have any fuckin’ food, this is ridiculous. I'll be back in a bit.”

Matt blinks, pushing himself up into a sitting position and rubbing his eyes. “Don't get arrested,” he calls out, earning a grunt in response as the door closes. Combat-boot footsteps echo out until even Matt can't hear them over the roar of the rest of the city and the buzz of alcohol in his system.

 

 

_Dad’s footsteps approach the door as Matt shifts nervously on the couch, biting his lip until he tastes blood. The door creaks open and Dad walks in, paper bags rustling as he sets groceries down on the table, and Matt hears his heart speed up as he walks into the living room._

_“Hey buddy,” Dad says softly, weight sinking into the cushions as he sits down, “what’s up?”_

_Matt swallows the lump in his throat and he digs around in his pockets, hands trembling as he takes out the cracked lenses and broken arm of his glasses. “They broke,” he whispers, “I-I fell, today at school.”  
Dad leans over and picks out the remains of the sunglasses, and Matt feels calloused fingers close around his own shaking hands._

_“The ground must’ve put up a fight, Matty, you've got a black eye.”_

_Matt’s shoulders tense up, and he feels his face grow hot. He didn't know there was a bruise there. Before he knows it, he's shaking and holding onto Dad as tight as he can.  
“I'm sorry,” he cries, “I'm sorry, I'm s-s-so-sorry, I know you don't want me to fight but I didn't h-have a choice, th-these kids were picking on a girl and I told them to stop a-a--and they wouldn't listen, they were throwing dirt a-a-at her and calling her names and then they st-st--started shoving b—both of us around and trying to take my glasses so I— I-I just—”_

_Dad squeezes Matt and runs his fingers through his hair, gently rocking back and forth. “Deep breaths, kid, c’mon. It's okay, it's okay. I'm not mad.”_

_Matt sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Y-You're not…?”_

_“No, no. You stood up for yourself and tried to help someone. That takes guts, Matty, it really does. I just don't want you out there fighting for fighting’s sake, you know? Now don't go out starting stuff and claiming self defense, but...if you're protecting yourself or someone else, it's alright. I'm proud of you, Matty, you're my little soldier, always kickin’...”_

 

 

Matt jolts awake as he falls off the couch, groaning at the pain that blossoms in the back of his head. The front door opens, and Frank’s heavy footsteps thud on the floor as he walks in.  
“Fuck, Red, you okay?” he asks, and he's hoisting Matt up by the shoulders before he gets an answer.

“Uh, yeah, thanks. I just...had a weird dream, that's all.”  
Frank hums, sitting down in a chair across the coffee table, and Matt can hear the rustling of plastic bags. “You went to the store?”

“Yeah, I got you some actual fucking food.”  
Frank takes out each item from the bags and sets them on the coffee table. “I put the change in your wallet, by the way, ones are whole, fives are halved by width, tens are halved lengthwise, twenties are quartered, that right?”

“I— Yeah, that's it.”

“D’you got one of those braille printers or label makers or somethin’?”

“Label maker, yeah, top drawer in the kitchen.”

The Marine retrieves the label maker and sits back down.  
“First off, at your ten o’clock, that's rice. They're in little cups, there's a plastic seal over each cup.”  
He's typing something into the label maker, then pastes it on each of the rice cups, handing it over to Matt. “Spellcheck me, Red.”

WHITE RICE  
MICROWAVEABLE  
INSTRUCTIONS; REMOVE SEAL, HEAT FOR ONE MINUTE, COOL IF DESIRED, SERVE.

Matt nods, and Frank continues. “Then we’ve got some cup noodles. Same as the rice, but you gotta add water to this one. Just hold it under the tap for ten seconds and it’ll be to the right amount.”  
It keeps going like that, Frank handing over groceries and telling Matt what they are, and labeling each item in Braille.  
“Here's some beer that doesn't taste like piss, this is milk, some Cheerios, bag of animal crackers because why the fuck not, raviolis in a can, twelve pack of Coca-Cola, I dunno why I bought this many oranges, oh hell yeah there's the blue jello…”

On and on, until Matt’s fingers hurt from the labels and his shelves are no longer “a monument to the Great Depression,” as Frank had described.

Once everything is put away, Matt sits back down on the couch with a slight frown. “Frank? Did you buy all this with your own money?”

“Yeah, why? You got a problem with my money?”

“No, no, it's just… I don't understand why you felt the need to go out and get all this just because you noticed my fridge was empty except for shitty beer.”

Frank sighs.  
“I was a soldier, and I had a family. I know it's easy to get so caught up in life that you feel like everything is just a crock of shit. If you're depressed, you don't put effort into things, you skimp on eating and it makes you feel shittier. With my family, if my kids would get into a slump, they'd feel ten times worse if the fridge was empty, cuz then they’d be sad _and_ hungry. You're a real good guy, Red, you’ve helped me out a lot, and… I guess part of me wants to be sure you're alright.”

Matt feels something in his chest stutter for a moment.  
“I… Uh, thanks. Thank you. I appreciate this, a lot.”

 

Matt’s not sure how or when Frank ended up in his apartment, and he definitely doesn't know what compelled the both of them to get extremely drunk on the beer in Matt's fridge, but it happened.  
And he's glad it did.


End file.
